


Blind Faith

by clownsxclowns, PumpkinMarsh



Series: Collabs [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman (The Dark Knight), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Joker (2019)
Genre: Bickering, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Bratting, Cigarette Burning, Cigarettes, Dom/sub, Erratic Bois, F/M, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Kinda?, Knifeplay, Makeup, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Porn With Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Russian Roulette, Sexual Tension, Smut, Spit Kink, Spitroasting, Submission, Teasing, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, dubcon, potential series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownsxclowns/pseuds/clownsxclowns, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinMarsh/pseuds/PumpkinMarsh
Summary: This was a joint piece created by PumpkinMarsh (Pennyship and also PumpkinMarsh on Tumblr), and I! We had a lot of fun doing it, it took around a month to create this thicc bad boi HFISUDFSH. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as we had fun making it! We might make this into a series???Summary: A hit doesn't go as expected.
Relationships: Both Jokers, Heath Joker x Reader, Joaquin Joker x Reader, Joker (DCU) & You, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker (DCU)/You/Other(s), Joker/You
Series: Collabs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566892
Comments: 3
Kudos: 66





	Blind Faith

_Pain._

It was the only thing that overwhelmed your perception, the only thing that made sense. Immediately, you identified the distinctive feeling of a meshed material brushing up against your face. It was a strange, straw-like fabric – one that made it difficult to breathe as it encapsulated your head. It was equally as challenging to see and even when your eyes began to settle, it scarcely made a difference. Anxiety flooded, clawing at you like a dog plagued by fleas, itching wildly in an attempt to hit that _one spot_ – to break you. 

_You couldn’t even remember how you got here._

With a dry swallow, the heavy fog of grogginess began to lift – departing – while the reality of your dire situation laggardly sunk in. Your icy, rigid fingers prompted jolting movements, a helpless endeavour to loosen up the numb appendages. And, in a similar manner, it was speedily proven your arms were just as weak, the action manifesting itself in a pathetic number of wriggles and, ultimately, more anguish. With these failed attempts, you realised something horrific; a truth so gut-wrenching, your heart jumped with dread and lodged itself in your throat. 

_You were tied up._

You had been in this situation before – many a time as to be expected from your line of work – and you had always managed to, more or less, come out alive. Notoriety made this so. 

Trying to speak, to call out for help, was fruitless; a single reckless, tentative scream could be the difference between life or death. Combining the growing pit in your stomach and your apparent amnesia, you knew you had to cling onto whatever shred of clarity you could. Though, said indicators weren’t particularly pointing to favourable outcomes. 

You weren’t entirely sure how long you’d been unconscious. However, judging from the tiresome ache in your jaw, you presumed you’d been there for quite a while. No matter how much you struggled to stretch out the cramping joint, to exercise it, the hinge was imperviously fixed. Using your tongue to prod at the cloth wrapped crudely around your mouth, supposedly tied at the back, the all-too-familiar metallic tang of blood infiltrated your tastebuds. Somehow, an injury had occurred; perhaps during a scuffle you had yet to recall. 

_You needed a game plan._

The ropes rubbed and scratched at your raw skin, the material similar to the bag over your head. Your pulsing wrists let you know that deep bruises had already started to set, thanks to the ever-so-accommodating constraints. 

The longer you were aware, the more conscious you became of your surroundings; the damp, earthy smell which enveloped the room was reminiscent of a dingy basement and the rope tied around your screaming legs was utilised in the same manner as your arms. You tried your best to call forward any form of memory, even scraps, but with practically no recollection, the sudden flurry of questions that infiltrated your mind only rendered you more frustrated and begrudgingly unsettled. While it had only taken seconds to check over your body and gain some sense of understanding, you had successfully identified the weak points of your restraints. Whoever had tied you up had done a decent job, though judging from the disproportionate knots – clunky in some areas, loose in others – there had been a mad scramble to tie you up. 

Before you could focus and develop a quick survival plan, the conspiring was quickly put to a stop. 

You heard footsteps. 

Two pairs. 

With your instincts peaking, you honed in on their noises, the echo bouncing off what you believed was a hallway. A distinctive essence seemed to radiate off the way they walked: purposeful. Though faint and distant when you first heard them, the closer they became the easier it was for you to determine that your suspicion was correct – that there were two people approaching. Their hushed voices led you to the straining conclusion they were both males. 

Within minutes, all had stopped. 

_Silence._

Then, a metallic screech. 

You held your breath, hoping that your stillness would fool your abductors. 

“Well, well, our – uh, little _**bunny’s**_ awake.” 

_Fuck._

Lacking any reason to keep up the limp facade, you lifted your gaze towards their direction in hopes of catching a glimpse of your masked captors through the porous material. Distorted blobs of plum and ruby red surrounded your vision. When the tap of footsteps proceeded, your body instinctively twitched at his proximity, effectuating in raspy wheezing fits of laughter.

You knew that voice. Knew it all too well, unfortunately. Wild, unhinged, and mockingly musical. It had all suddenly come back to you: the memories prior to your capture. The memories of when you had first met the dynamic deathly duo. The memories of when they had intentionally and wholly fucked up your hit. 

In truth, your captors were the physical humanoid embodiments of cyclones, their primary objective – hell, life goal – to stir shit up whenever possible. Everyone involved in crime knew of their havoc and if that wasn’t enough to convince the ignorant, the news channels were just as reinforcing. Contractors were on high alert whenever they escaped Arkham and combined forces, planning for their inevitable intrusion, meaning that jobs were often scarce. 

Only twice had you been _‘blessed’_ with their presence, and twice had been enough.

God help anyone who fell in their path. 

_God help **you.**_

////

Blends of neon shrouded your vision. Reds, blues and, very sparingly, pinks oozed a warm homey feeling: a welcoming glow. The condensation which dripped down onto your fingers, originating from the chilled glass in your hand, was oddly comforting. What wasn’t, though, was the potent stench of sweat, cigarettes, and beer; the yeasty scent being the most tolerable of the lot. 

Although the establishment you commonly found yourself in was rough, rustic and unconventional, you’d formed a deep attachment to it. Memories, both positive and negative, decorated every corner; out of all the years you had wasted here, not a single crevice was left without a story. Especially the spray of bullet holes printed into the wall.

In the business, you were given names – never personally chosen, and if you fucked up, you had to make sure you worked your ass off to change it. _‘Triggerfinger’_ had been your first. It wasn’t a nice story, and it had imprinted after you unintentionally shot at one of your coworkers, mistaking them for one of your targets. The following wasn’t any better: _‘Spineless’_ the next considering you had the ‘nerve’ to turn down jobs you didn’t agree with. But, as you ascended the brutal, unforgiving ladder of assassins, the one that was the most noteworthy, was _‘Judgement.’_

Just from a quick glance, any newcomer was able to deduce that the typical crowd was a rowdy, deadly bunch. Each visitor displayed their brutal scars with pride; some were horribly disfigured, and others, yet to be. Hilariously contrasted with this was the live entertainment, a mixture of jazz and soul. You guessed it was the owner’s attempt at masking the illegal activity – though, what could you truly hide with such a questionable crowd? 

As usual, you kept your distance, preferring the corners of the bar – voluntarily choosing to bask in the shadows and observe your surroundings rather than interact. Most were hunched over their tables, high from the night’s success as they sat with friends; each armed with drinks and eager to slip away from life’s harsh realities. It was certainly a dangerous decision to lower your guard in the establishment, yet thanks to the heavily enforced ‘no-kill’ rule, such activities were _mostly_ prevented. 

Accidents _did_ happen, however.

Regardless, the quaint bar that was the _‘Feisty Pig’_ was home to many; hidden and safe. 

At least that was what you had thought. 

Despite your watchful gaze, you remained painfully unaware of the danger that walked in until it was too late. A hush creak emanated from the entrance of the bar and since the said door was hidden from your angle, you hadn’t bothered to check. A quick scan of the boisterous area had exhibited nothing out of the ordinary, inducing a false sense of security.

It had been your biggest mistake.

Bringing the cool glass up to your lips, tongue overwhelmed by the bitter drink, you lurked around the corner of the bar, nimble fingers trailing the cool, sticky wood of the countertop. The floor was in a similar state, a nasty collection of syrupy alcohol – evidence of countless spilt drinks from the careless drunkards. The muck stuck onto the bottom of your shoe emitted a grotesque crackling with each peeling step–

_Shatter._

“What the fuck?” You exclaimed, bewildered as you blinked twice. Your gaze hit the stone ground and there, scattered into tiny pieces laid the cup that had once so securely rested in your grip. The rest of your drink was completely unsalvageable, spread out in one giant splatter, adding to the floor’s increasingly effective adhesive. 

A snarl contorted your features when you looked up, the expression stuttering slightly when you met with intense dark eyes and a painted face.

Gasps sounded, the live music halted.

All went silent.

The only noise for miles was the pounding sound of your own heartbeat, a loud repetitive thud in both ears. A chilling cascade of trepidation washed over your frame when you realised who you bumped into: one of Gotham’s most nefarious criminals.

The universe seemed to be shining down on you that night because just behind him with a killer grin strolled in Arthur Fleck – also a feared man. One of legend. 

“What a shame,” Joker glanced at his shoes. 

Your eyes followed his, identifying wet stains as they seeped into the leather, forming shadowy uneven blotches.

“They were,” he fiddled with his lapels as his tongue ran across his bottom lip, eyes snapping back to yours, “uh, new.” 

The way he stretched out the final word set off red blaring alarm bells, his _‘e’s’_ forcing the clench of his teeth. Despite all instincts telling you not to – that you were going to _**die**_ if you did – you righted your posture, your neck arching up with a stern expression as you completely ignored the way his figure hunched over yours. Their iniquitous acts were known far and wide throughout Gotham, but you were not about to let two grade-A thugs intimidate you as if you were just some other lowlife. You considered your work, although not as vogue, equally as cunning, and without a doubt, more honourable. In fact, your pride would go as far as to say that your methods were far more meticulous and planned, leading to fewer catastrophes while the men who stood in front of you left nothing but mayhem in their wake. 

You stared at death in the face with gritted teeth, _begging_ it to do its worst. 

He immediately noticed the change in stature: defensive. His eyebrows shot up at this, displaying the lines in his forehead. Cracks through the layers of makeup unveiled mortality, an often needed reminder; an indication that he wasn’t a terrifying monster, or an unstoppable force of disorder. That he was, in fact, plain and simply, human. 

When he pursed his lips together, the action morphed into a sickening smile. 

“Aww, does the kitten wanna play?” 

His tone was condescending, eggplant coloured gloves forming into a fist, leaving all but one finger. He hovered it in front of your face and tapped your nose with the single digit, his voice emitting a small ‘boop’ when they connected. 

“Because I _can_ play.” 

He moved closer, nose centimetres away from your forehead when he purred out his next phrase, voice lowering an octave, “I _promise_ I’ll be gentle.” 

You knew exactly how his type worked, what made them tick. Fuelled by terror and quick to pick up on any sign of weakness, people like him fed off of any negativity. You couldn’t back down now – you’d be giving him exactly what he craved, giving him the motive to escalate the situation into something much more grave.

“Oh yeah?” You breathed through your nose, a scoff followed before your own forehead pressed up against his nose. It was a false display of confidence, yet confidence nonetheless. Looking him dead in the eye, your gaze never deterred. 

“I can’t _‘promise’_ the same,” you sneered while your eyes flicked over his form, “I’m not scared of you.” 

The spat out phrase dripped with poison and Joker didn’t react, at least not from what you could tell. He merely watched, a smirk gracing his lips as he pulled back. Your eyes darted to Arthur then, who had been leaning against the counter in his red suit, observing the whole scene. Trapped between two digits was a cigarette, the amber glow merging with the lighting.

“ _Either_ of you,” you concluded. 

Arthur’s watchful gaze burned into yours, the smouldering stick which hung between his painted lips partially covered by wisps of thick smoke. At your attention, his head flopped to the side and his shoulders slung back, the entirety of his frame veered towards you. Menacing was the twist of his body, the mere movement showcasing his undivided attention while the edges of his lips tilted into a playful smirk. The aura emanating from his smug form was minacious, the singular eyebrow he cocked upwards hammering this home.

“I don’t blame you. Most people tend to cling to the – _ahem_ – _illusion_ of grandeur,” Joker stated, the upturn of his lips complimenting his impish gleam, “it helps them sleep at night.” 

You tried to contain the chill their probing conjured, it felt as though they saw right through you – as if they knew _exactly_ what you were thinking. 

“Says the one in clown makeup,” you retorted. 

_God, was that really the best you could come up with?_

The festering rage within was building up by the second and it was only a matter of time before it was released. In a quick decision of ‘goodwill,’ you decided it was time for your departure, before all hell broke loose. Before you ended up with an ‘accident’ on your hands. 

You didn’t hang around.

 _“Mrroowww.”_

His mocking growl went unnoticed by your exit, the man in purple tilting his head in an exaggerated manner as he watched you leave.

If you had turned back, you would have witnessed how both Arthur and Joker’s prying eyes swept your frame, the couple void of shame. Of embarrassment. Without knowing, you had piqued their interest, your audacious air a phenomenon that compelled their noxious handling and aroused their desire for destruction – to dwindle your untamed hellfire. 

Gradually, the music filled the air again, and so did the murmurs. Though, with the duo hanging around, both never truly regained their original traction. 

////

The familiar tingle of adrenaline rushed through you like a stream, the sensation warm while you peered into the telescopic sight attached to your sniper. Directly in your line of vision was your area of interest: a building, one much lower than the one you found yourself on, exposed with large crystal windows and separated by thick chunks of sandstone. The blue hue of the moon shimmered against the glass panes, and the occasional car, which announced its presence with flying gusts, intertwined the cooler colour with stark reds and whites; a vivid, ethereal aurora. Accidental and man-made, yet nonetheless arresting. 

Said light show had been the only thing worth observing – your target nowhere to be found. 

_He was late._

You were used to slow nights. You had been trained for them. Yet, despite such experience, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that something was about to go wrong. The smell of fire which coated the atmosphere and tickled your nose only reinforced this feeling, the festering brew of destruction a stink Gotham knew well. When such concerning intuitions prompted another routine scan, you were, once again, met with nada. Nothing stuck out, and everything seemed more or less ordinary. 

_‘What the fuck is wrong with me?’_ You sighed, internally scolding yourself. 

You momentarily plopped your weapon down and rolled out of position, the durable black leather which hugged your frame blending into the night, emitting small creaks with each movement. It was currently the only thing which kept you from freezing to death on the edge of the multiple storey building, aside from the brick half-wall your weapon laid against, diverting the wind’s path. Although clearly not the most comfortable thing, the one-piece was practical, especially when things turned physical, providing a certain agility and swiftness. The bonus was that you got to look good while doing it.

For weeks, you had been building up your case against one of Gotham’s latest mob bosses. Ruthless and ferociously climbing in influence, he was a feared man. He’d taken Gotham’s underbelly by a storm and many, including your contractor, wanted him dead. A man’s weakness was hidden within his personal life and when such information was scarce, or unavailable, people became desperate. Tenfold when power was involved. Both supreme at blackmail and assassinations, that was where you came in. 

You tried to separate feelings and personal opinions as much as you could – emotions were what got you hurt, or worse, killed. Though the muted deplorable rumours prompted you to investigate, it had been the wicked acts you’d personally witnessed the man commit that led you to accepting the hit. Truthfully, you couldn’t help but feel relief the fucker was going to die within the hour. By your hand. 

If he turned up, that was. 

Estimating the time you wasted waiting for your donkey-of-a-target to turn up was in vain. But, when he finally did show up, your attention was immediately captured. It wasn’t the spark of exhilaration which ignited at the sound of screeching wheels, it wasn’t because of the soothing relief you felt, no longer paranoid the job was in jeopardy. 

No. 

It was because once the man arrived, he began shouting at his goons, projecting so loud you could hear him despite the distance. The flurry of words was so fast, however, that most words were lost on you. It was a wonder how he was so mysterious, in all honesty. If one of his enemies had been willing to stake out his hideout for a couple of hours, they would’ve seen how easy it was to piss him off. 

Although, upon further inspection, there seemed to be something legitimately wrong. Before you could realign your sniper and look through the scope, a series of short sputtering bangs rang out. The rapid fulguration which seeped from the entrance, now wide open and leaking a thick cloud of smoke, lit up the deserted street. The hazardous hold of the night had made it this way – a concept so horrifying, most Gothamites shivered at; a concept that involuntarily coerced most to routinely check their locks.

When your target oh-so-stupidly ran in headfirst like a bull catching a glimpse of crimson, you didn’t even bother to mask the groan that left your lips. You needed that fucker alive until your client gave the say so. 

No way in hell were you gonna let someone else steal your kill. 

As you speedily chucked your firearm to the floor, you moved away from your set-up and sprinted for the building’s fire escape. You surprised yourself at how quickly you scaled down the stairs, maneuvering your body in such a way that even Catwoman would’ve been proud. The landing wasn’t as graceful as you would have hoped, weakening your knees, though you didn’t have time to dwell on the ache as the screams from the infrastructure became a constant occurrence. When you reached the front doors, the turbulent feeling of dread was inflamed at the sight of the worsening cloud filtering out of the doors. The fumes from the sinister mist scratched at your vision, your irritated eyes glazing over with tears. 

With the smog leisurely hovering, you navigated in such a way that your body was engulfed by the cloud, hidden from anyone’s peering sight. The ominous flickering of the lights above, combined with the rumbling footsteps and disgruntled shouts from the petulant ruffians, had you awkwardly twirling your limbs out of their path and into a nearby hallway. The scene was like something out of a horror movie, as if a preternatural creature was hot on their trail, unleashing havoc. 

Your nails flexed against the floor, in a quick attempt to calm your ragged breaths; the air in the hall wasn’t as thick, so your lungs had a chance to take in the much-needed oxygen. As you scanned the area, several crimson shoe prints stained the white tiles, sticking out like a sore thumb. Their path was scattered as if their owner had galloped down the hall, stepping unnaturally to their destination – circular streaks of red made you question if they had done a few pirouettes to accompany their coltish dance.

Ignoring the bloodied prints, you skulked through the building, avoiding each random clash and listened for your hit – he was bound to be hiding in one of the many rooms. 

Finally, a clue, a hint of his presence laid chaotically in front of you: a golden cufflink with his abbreviations engraved on the metallic layer. Picking up to further examine it, you scoffed at the tiny button; it was always entertaining to see what kind of senseless commodities people would throw their money away on. However, you weren’t complaining seeing as most of your clients were wealthier than the average person could imagine. 

The door swayed open, space too eerily quiet for it to be natural. The hairs on your neck pricked with anticipation, your overwrought nerves shouted at you to stand by until the coast was clear, but from _what?_

Denying the ease of waiting, your breath hitched as you prowled into the room, dilated pupils focusing in on the sight before you – your target’s figure lumbered underneath a desk, surely wrapped in a layer of feigned safety; too cramped to move an inch without immediately bumping into a hard wooden corner. Your teeth bit onto the inside of your cheek to stifle any unwanted snickers as you watched his feet shuffle uncomfortably through the open gap near the floor. 

In a typical day’s work, you’d find your hit with ease, relishing in the adrenaline of completing the job, of cleansing Gotham of one less criminal. By the end of it all, you’d go home already organising your next target, wondering which scum was next to go. But this hadn’t been a typical day – you had unwillingly discarded your first means of capture. Next, you had been forced to enter the crowded infrastructure only to then crawl around like an infant to find the bastard. The only thing keeping you going was the thrill of the hunt. 

The sadist in you wanted to make him suffer a little, to wait it out, to let him think he was safe. As you steered yourself soundlessly, spotting a vantage point, you eventually pounced, mumbled prayers leaving his trembling lips. 

“You,” his frame jerked, stupefied by the sound of your voice, “have _no idea_ what I had to go through to find you.”

Having been involved in a small number of dishevelled frays, you were able to saunter over and pin him down. Sweat coated your forehead as you both struggled, attempting to restrain the lanky man writhing in your hold. 

If only things could have been that easy, if only you had been given the okay to kill him right there and then. Your client had expected you to bring him to them. You didn’t ask details – you didn’t particularly care what happened to the man in your arms, he deserved much less. Though, from the requestors instructions, it suggested that whatever the reason, it was personal. Only after would you _then_ be able to finish him off. 

Moving back into the hallway, a quick scan had you gravitating towards a fire exit, the two of you successfully escaping the pandemonium unscathed. You quickly found that the detour was a small offshoot from the main road, a grimey alleyway filled with garbage bags and litter. 

After your trembling fingers brushed up against the brick, you shut the door with the bottom of your boot. In one swift movement, you pinched at your victim’s pressure points, singling out his neck. The man’s desperate struggles and muffled shouts halting. Just before you dropped the human sack of potatoes, you noticed the curious red stain layering the back of his neck, smudged fingerprints amalgamating with the wet substance. With furrowed brows, you directed your attention to your hands, the man momentarily forgotten when you spotted the exact same gunk coating your fingers. 

It didn’t take you long to find the source, the colour practically _draining_ from your face.

Smeared across the alley walls behind you was a large, poorly drawn (to the point where it was child-like), smiley face. Its lines were thin and shaky, especially around the smile, and its eyes were disproportionately pronounced – one eye larger, the other so curved and small, it looked like it was winking. Whether or not this was on purpose, you weren’t sure. Crimson coloured, the drawing dribbled with paint– 

_Wait._

When you approached, sniffing, your alarmed form pulled back, immediately punched with a stench; metallic and grisly – a stink you were well and truly acquainted with.

_Definitely not paint._

As if it had only just been outlined, you watched the droplets run down the wall. The soulless eyes and the mocking upturn unsettled you to no end. No matter how many times you tried to tell yourself that this was all a coincidence, that this was somehow meant to scare the mob boss you had just knocked out, a deep part of you fought the belief. Above the devilish grin layed a message, one that had you furrowing your brows in confusion. It consisted of two words. Simple, yet ominous. 

_‘LOOK OUT.’_

_What?_

You didn’t have time to dwell on it though, as the noises of something fluttering gripped your attention. It was small and thin – paper-thin judging by the way it danced in the wind, twirling with the grace of one of Moscow’s finest. In no way did the unforeseen, sinister appearance of, what you made out to be a playing card, soothe your wired mind. When your fingers dipped to the ground, meeting with the patterned back of the small card, you flipped it. 

_Joker._

Just as fast as you had picked it up, you tossed it away like it was bug-ridden and dove for cover. It was just as well too, because the whistling which filled the air was a phenomenon you didn’t have time to process, the last seconds a blur. The rumbling of the asphalt and the temporary deafness further disoriented you. 

It all happened so fast. 

The ringing in your ears was the only thing you could hear, everything else muted against its high-pitched shrill. When you eventually gathered the strength to peel yourself off the floor, your neck struggled to carry your heavy skull, hands shakily supporting your weight. Automatically responding to the warm, thick liquid trickling down your forehead, narrowly missing your eye, you dabbed at it, pain contorting your features at grazing the sensitive gash. Your eyes furiously blinked, trying to focus your hazy vision on your dirty hands, crimson ooze mixing in with grime. 

Vertigo sent a wave of nausea through you, propelling your mind into a flurry. Thoughts and sensations intermingled together, blurring your weltered surroundings as your form wavered. Red speckles embellished the sweeping gusts of wind, the embers reminiscent of apocalyptic cataclysm, fortifying perfervid disorder. 

Like a drunk, you stumbled your way out of the nook, fingers desperately gripping onto brick. All thoughts about your target were abandoned, your new, primary objective – to survive. Each small movement encouraged the shrieking aches enveloping your body; the only thing keeping you going was the heart-jolting blurred image of the main road. You hesitantly rested your throbbing head against the wall, shakily exhaling when you reached the divide in the alley, its path bleeding into freedom… 

Or so you thought. 

The wild, scattered flames which were sprinkled along the length of the street had your eyes stinging, fumes poignant and toxic. The roaring of the fire around you, the heated wind, the chaos, immediately replaced the void that once dominated your auditory perception; overwhelmingly loud. And if the entracing sight wasn’t enough, the building you had just escaped out of had been hit the worst. Its windows were now shattered, shards of glass scattered everywhere as a firestorm engorged the tall building. Distant blares of neighbouring car alarms faintly wove in and out of focus.

_What happened?_

It seemed that within seconds, you received your answer, spotting a figure. The blob of purple was unsteady from your strained vision and you shook your head, face scrunching up as you tried to focus it. While the blotched hue remained salient, the orange blazes surrounded the mysterious figure like an aura; an angel of death. It was needless to try and identify the silhouette, already knowing who it was. 

You’re truly unsure what you did to piss off the universe, to force it to throw the criminal mastermind in the mix, though you were sure-as-fuck sorry. 

You were thrown out of your discombobulated thoughts when his unsettling voice rose above the overpowering disturbance, your eyes finally focusing on the madman walking towards you. 

“We, uh, really need you to _**not**_ kill him,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Then again, to him, perhaps it was. 

Although he was still metres away, he was approaching. Fast. 

Confusion manipulated your face, and when he noticed, he rolled his eyes, head nodding towards the knocked out figure in the alley. The weapon of destruction, a bazooka, imprisoned in his grasp was something you only noticed when it bobbed along with his directive movements. Everything clicked into place. 

You went to reply, to release the anger that had been slowly bubbling up inside, but incoming wails shut your draping jaw. Vibrant hues of azure and cardinal shrouded the entire street. Gotham’s once solemn one-dimensional shade of beige and grey had metamorphosed into a bright palette of exuberance – the entirety of it brought on by the strokes of its psychotic creator. 

Law enforcement’s sudden appearance had led you to believe this whole thing had been set up; undercover the whole time and ready to apprehend your target, or worse, you for his kidnapping and subsequent murder. How the hell they found out in the first place was beyond you. 

Someone had tattled.

“Oh!” His pointer shot up, head tilting toward the sirens, “excuse me,” he finished, mocking politeness as one gloved hand disappeared into his plum trench coat, digging for something. 

You turned your body. You could run, leave while he was distracted, leave with your fucking life while it was still possible. Or – your feet shifted on the spot, back towards the madman in careful thought – you could turn him in. Lord only knew how much grief you’d prevent. The man had been terrorising Gotham for years, and you’d be doing society a favour. 

Your eyes widened in horror when he pulled out ammunition for the bazooka. While you were partially impressed at how he could conceal such conspicuous contraband, you mostly feared for your safety – naturally. It was almost comedic how outrageous the scene was. Though, you were always up for a challenge. The buzz which cocooned your being was a powerful enabler, a motivator for stupidity.

As if it weighed nothing, he threw the weapon above his shoulder after reloading and aimed for the mass wave of police cars heading towards you two. Transfixed and wide-eyed, all you could do was watch the approaching cars skid at his extreme action. Some crashed, some managed to swerve away from such disaster, though in the end, it didn’t matter. In the officers’ last moments, Joker squeezed the dreaded trigger, the missile shooting right for them. Erupting in flames, yells filled the air as the man hit his bullseye dead on.

For the second time that night, you were thrown to the floor, concrete shaking with such a ferocity you were sure your brain had been reduced to mush. Thankfully far enough from the explosion this time, the high-pitched frequency which returned to your ears wasn’t as harsh, and faded out just as quickly. The laugh that followed emanated pure sadism, a violent cackle in which sparked an equally as violent fury within. 

Then and there you had decided you were going to risk it. 

You weren’t sure when he had turned back to you, though when you shot up from the floor, he was watching you carefully, studying you like a hunter with a wild animal; anticipating your next move. The first to break the stalemate, you welcomed the rush of adrenaline and catapulted towards him. With each step you grew in confidence, completely disregarding the way he placed the rocket launcher in front of him; disregarding the way his lips upturned into a chilling smirk, disregarding the way he rocked on his heels and whistled, the sound short and sharp. He was well and truly unperturbed by your rapid advance. 

You were about to reach him, about to connect your fist with his face, when you were suddenly grabbed from behind. The grip was firm and encapsulating, your struggles reduced to nothing when you felt the chilling press of metal against your spine, the sensation followed by a recognised click. It was slow and drawn out, the notch clicking into place like a mocking song. A tune which was served with a drizzle of malice, berating you for ‘getting got.’ 

_A gun._

“Mind if I cut in?” A voice purred. 

Arthur’s voice. 

It all made sense, the aforementioned ‘we,’ the calm demeanour, the whistle. The Jokers always had a plan, and you had so foolishly thought yourself better. So blinded by rage, you had forgotten one of the most basic principles of your line of work. You let emotions cloud your _judgement._

Oh, the hubris. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

The cool metal tip of his pistol leisurely trailed up the indents of your spine, over your shoulder, and under your neck until finally, it rested snuggly against the bottom of your chin. Goosebumps spread across your flush skin, causing your frame to shudder as the awkward position sent you tumbling back into him. 

You squirmed as he pressed you against his frail form, solidifying his hold in response to each resisting jolt. The tickling sensation of his whispered words swept the lobe of your ear, coaxing a languid moan. Shame gnawed at you and it was almost piteous how you tried to mask it. It didn’t help that you were pressed against his crotch, his hips rutting the stiffening outline of his cock into you.

In a florid attempt to separate your body from his, you slammed your heel on the man’s leather shoe, making sure to twist against his aching toes. Your moment of silent victory was interrupted by a series of explosive cackles – instead of yanking himself away, he _relished_ in it, his heaving chest bumping into your shoulder blades. 

“Are you gonna put the claws away, kitten, or do we have to rough ya up some more?” The man in purple cooed after recovering from a giggling fit, his jovial form prancing his way to the two of you with a hum. You could practically hear his taunts at how you fell for one of the ‘oldest tricks in the book.’ 

“This is _‘roughing up?’_ ” You growled, a smile gracing your lips as you projected a thick wad of spit at his shoe, “I thought this was just foreplay.”

“Oh hooo,” Joker pulled back, a vicious glint shimmering in those black eyes. 

“ _I like you,_ ” his voice deepened and his thumb moved across your quivering lip, eyes trailing its movement, “ _Myyyy littleee spitfire._ ”

“And I think,” Joker’s gaze shot to Arthur, tongue flickering, “Artie here likes ya too.” 

Teeth grazing the shell of your ear confirmed this and you pressed your thighs together, gritting your teeth as you attempted to suppress the unexpected heat between your legs.

_Your body had **some nerve.**_

Then, Joker’s neck twitched, posing as a secret signal to the other and before you knew it, the hands holding you had shifted. You barely processed the sudden, bittersweet tang of freedom as you were thrown to the floor, asphalt collecting shreds of skin. Your teeth, which had clamped down on a small portion of your cheek during the scuffle, removed a chunk of tissue, and the burning of your wounds seeping thick, spurting liquid was blocked out by the harsh ache surrounding the crown of your head. 

As your vision started to blur, the last thing you saw was Arthur’s insane painted grin amidst their shared maniacal laughter. 

Darkness cradled your limp form. 

////

In an instant, the sensation of needles pricked your scalp as stray hairs were yanked from the root. Along with the violent flick, the mesh hood wrapped around your head was torn with it. The fleeting material, which had been slowly suffocating you, exposed your sensitive vision to a sudden blinding light, the change in luminance compelling you to screw your eyes shut. A curse left your lips as the dingy, bright basement light swinging above burnt into your vision, staining the void behind your lids. 

Your head hung low as you looked up at the pair through your eyelashes, the deep frown contorting your features the only layer concealing your fear. _‘Play with fire and you’re gonna get burnt’_ – if only you had listened to that fucking saying. 

The irritating ache of your vision eventually subsided and your surroundings faded to their natural tinges. The deep grey of the room was starkly contrasted with the colourful blotches of your captors – a laughable juxtaposition.

“I thought cats always, uh, landed on their feet.” 

Violet gloved fingers undulated the cellular material, his wheezing cachinnations and dangling motions serving to reignite your vexation at his unrelenting antics. It took every ounce of will to resist thrashing, to keep yourself from loosening the clunky restraints and oh-so-stupidly throwing yourself at the irksome man once more; you had to play your cards right this time.

“Because that’s what you are hmm? Some – _hehe-hee_ – cheap knock off of Catwoman?”

As his probing eyes skimmed your suit, the remark had you biting down on the gag, teeth grinding against it in irritation. You were nothing like her. 

“At least Catwoman has style,” Arthur, who had snuggly placed himself in the corner, piped up, taking a drag from his lit cigarette. For such a small thing, the fumes which merged with the boxy space were overwhelming and toxic, burning your lungs. 

This time you couldn’t contain yourself. No amount of training could withhold your trap, a fountain of words spewing from your maw. Even if it was muffled, and most likely indistinguishable by the two men, it felt good to let out your pent up frustrations roused by their behaviour. Before they could continue their verbal assaults – which was ultimately lacking in facts and, dare you say, overall class – you had cut in. 

“What was that, pumpkin?” Joker reached over and hooked his fingers into your mouth, movements gentle until they were securely clamped around the cloth, forcing it down with a force so vigorous your neck jostled forward along with it. 

He was so volatile.

It took you a moment to compose yourself. Hair disheveled, you tried to lessen the pain in your jaw by wiggling it before looking up at Joker. If looks could kill, you would have been out of this sticky situation ages ago. Both ignored your piercing look, however, and watched you closely. 

“Ah, thank you for your hospitality,” you said finally, sneering. “Now, where the fuck am I?”

You didn’t need to know the two personally to conclude that they were talkers. So, the fact that they sustained their stares and completely ignored your question was unsettling to say the least. You would have enjoyed their silence in any other circumstance; bathed in the pleasurable surge of victory after getting them to withhold their insults. Though, the joy contorting their lips thwacked out any remnants of such triumph. Each and every one of their loaded remarks were purposely formatted to break the barrier of your flesh. To burrow under your skin.

 _Oh, what you’d give to smear those **dumb** smiles._

As your eyes darted between the pair, eyebrows raised in expectancy, their lack of reply had you snapping.

 _Enough of this bullshit._

“Alright, I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna release me, tell me where the fuck I am and take me to my target. Then, I’ll do you both a favour and forget any of this shit even happened, _capiche?_ ”

“Naww, would you look at that, Kitty’s trying to play with the grown-ups,” Joker turned to Arthur, his thumb pointed toward you while the pair beamed. 

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. We took care of it,” Arthur spoke up from the back. 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” 

Arthur, with a large grin, rolled a shoulder forward abruptly, and his head shook along with his jittery movements. 

“I killed him.”

_Son. Of. A. **Bitch.**_

“Do you know how _long_ I worked that case for? To find him?” You let out a bitter laugh, eyes darting to the ceiling in disbelief. 

“To plan?” A sigh left you, “oh, who am I kidding? You guys wouldn’t know planning even if it slapped you in the fucking face,” you finished, the trembling bottled rage finally exploding. The consequences of such brash words failed to process and it was the last thing on your mind as you immediately projected a wad of spit next to you. 

At your rushed flurry of words, Joker rolled his eyes and gagged you once more, “ah-ta-ta-ta-tah. Language.” 

As if your prior temper wasn’t enough, his nagging ridicules exacerbated your murderous intent. Your profanities were stifled while your shoulders moved in a violent frenzy – the chair itself releasing a sequence of cries, quaking with your rough movements.

In one long step, he hopped in front of you. A collection of green strands hung in front of his face as he loomed. Then, just as fast as the cartoonish advance manifested, frantic jostles overtook his body. As he imitated your intensity, his giggles warbled the more you reacted to his taunts, urging him on. 

Blinding was the realisation when it struck. Reactions were what they wanted, and you needed to make sure you weren’t giving it to them. You had concluded as such in your earlier interactions with them, though your thin patience had buried this fact deep in the recesses of your mind – impulsively overlooking any sense of rationality. 

The inflamed skin of your knuckles blistered from the way you furiously gripped the rough binds, incessantly scraping to keep your florid temper at bay. Draining the slightest indication of anger, your eyes bore into the stygian creases of his makeup while you were swept under his unwavering scrutiny. 

His sadistic smile faltered when he failed to rouse a response, and you guessed your almost instant, dramatic shift had irked him more than he let on; your once emotive features now bland and stoic. 

Your controlled countenance was the ace hidden in your deck – the very thing that fuelled your triumphant pride. 

Arthur, still yet to move from his position against the wall, laughed at the noticeable stutter in Joker’s effervescence; an interruption which had the man attempting to torment you rear his head. As he met Arthur’s gaze with raised eyebrows, smacking his scarred lips, Arthur merely tilted his head in response. With an expression that feigned ignorance, he behaved as if the giggle hadn’t even left his mouth in the first place. 

This interaction hardly went unnoticed by you, and you made sure to savour the rare moment, taking in and storing the small dribbles of valuable information as if they were precious gems. It certainly made sense that both criminals would butt heads; both were strong and self-assured characters. The tension in the room was building up by the second, a discomfort you felt in the very pit of your stomach.

_You could use this…_

You were about to run through a game plan, about to answer the galling question of _‘how’_ but instead, you were stopped at their abrupt cessation of bickering. While both men were incredibly unpredictable, nothing could have prepared you for the way Joker flung himself towards you, knife sliding down his purple sleeve as he pressed it against your cheek. Unsteady breaths from your nostrils swept his face. Perhaps he could smell your fear as the tip indented your cheek. 

The way in which he had positioned himself was awkward, his heavy thighs weighing down your own as they pressed into you. His towering frame was hunched, exaggerating the disparity between your height, while his unarmed hand gripped your opposite cheek. Trying your hardest to collect yourself and sustain the stoic facade that had been ingrained through your training, you held your breath.

Black eyes trailed your mouth as the knife inched closer until finally, he pressed the flat end of the blade against it. The involuntary physiological response of your lips quivering was what gave you away, the action instantaneously picked up by the man who refused to deter his eyes; observing every little twitch and flinch of your _mostly_ controlled features. Quick to act on the opportunity, he then thrust the weapon inside, its sharp edge dangerously close to slicing into the side of your skin. The frantic thumping of your heart played in your ears as you anticipated his next move, a musical stampede of horror. You were almost certain time had slowed. Every second was drawn out – made to feel like an eternity while your body remained on high alert; waiting for the familiar burn of pain. 

Thankfully, before he could do anything else, he was interrupted. 

“You can’t control yourself for two seconds, can you?” Arthur whined, the melodramatic tinges in his tone made you question whether it was his attempt at a joke; as if you were on a sitcom – as if you hadn’t been fucking kidnapped and tied to a chair.

The lunatic on top of you froze for a moment, seemingly processing the remark before he completely slipped off you, gaze shooting towards the man in red. Like a shark, he began to circle your form: predatory. 

“Artie over here,” Joker started, flicking the point towards him and waving it around as he tutted. It was the only time the knife left your suit. 

“He, uh, can’t fight his own battles, you see? Has to carry a – _heeheh_ – a gun wherever he goes.” 

“Thing is – you can’t savour all the _little…_ ” The dagger Joker had been tracking against the leather of your suit was pressed into the material, a clean slash displaying the flesh surrounding your clavicle. In an abrupt motion, his fist tore at the newly formed rip, while a gasp was snatched from you, merging with its savage clamour, “ _emotions._ ”

As the area just above your chest was now exposed, a series of hindered vulgarities rushed out, thankfully impeded by the gag. The thing holding you back was, ironically, the very same thing keeping you alive. 

“Shushushshh,” the wriggles which accompanied your colourful language forced the hovering purple glove to grip your chin, pinching your cheeks as if you were a child being scolded. Barely thrown off his tangent, Joker sustained his berating remarks. 

“Guns are quick and sweet, Artieee. The easy way out…” he dragged out his _‘e’s’_ , features contorting into a cringe, “cow-ard-ly.”

Your eyes had long since shifted from your immediate tormentor to Arthur, his own squinted gaze glued to his co-conspirator. Surprise flooded you when you drank in his expression; the wavering of his chin, the scrunch of his painted nose, the jutting of his jaw and lastly, the downturn of his lips, communicated that this wasn’t just a minor quarrel. That this was something more. 

“You take that back,” Arthur spat, poison dripping from his words. 

The chewed-on cigarette butt was twirled between svelt fingers, incandescent tremors causing a cascade of ashes to flit down to the frigid concrete. When transient embers were reduced to mere specks by his feet, they spasmodically bounced away from his silent wrath. With something you could only describe as a nervous tick, the wrinkles on his thighs were carelessly smoothed away by his jittering gestures; once, twice, three separate times as if it would calm the chatter of his frenzied thoughts.

“Awwww, what’re ya gonna do?” Joker’s pause was matched by his hands which shot into the air, fingertips writhing sarcastically, “beat me with your stick arms?”

Arthur’s trembling form released a flurry of giggles, and his twitching fingers curled behind his suit jacket. Catching a glimpse of glittering silver, you felt your heart skip a beat when the mysterious object was uncovered with one violent swing of his arm. The piercing black holes of its barrel – even though not aimed towards you – struck you with fear, the front of bravery adopted to maintain your composition pitifully abandoned. While you were evidently distressed, the man who had stopped encircling you remained unfazed. Like a caged animal, sick of being kept for entertainment, you worked at your loose restraints, aching chafed wrists ignored.

Joker skipped his way up to the nook Arthur had made home in, the song he was absently humming echoing off the dull stone walls. On the way there, he rolled his shoulders and discarded his notorious coat along with him. 

“Ooooh, now we’re, uh, _getting_ somewhere… Tryyy me, Artieeeeee,” his tongue flicked across his scars, a mocking smile following shortly behind while he scruffed the unbuttoned cuffs of his sleeves, unceremoniously rolling it over his tensed thews. 

The pair keenly stared each other down – inviting the other do their worst. 

“Let’s play,” Joker sneered. 

Arthur, taking a drag of the stick lodged betwixt digits, blew puffs of smoke into the opposing male’s face. Joker’s eyebrows twitched upwards, expressing his clear amusement at the disrespectful gesture. His wide hands grasped Arthur’s, gnashing the pistol’s barrel into his forehead while white streaks stained the metal.

As Arthur’s fingers deserted the cigarette in his mouth, his lips wrapped around it. The tip wiggled when he twirled the firearm around his pointer, using the trigger guard. In one flick, the barrel protruded, copper pieces of lead exhibited. In the form of small pellets, gold rained down and scattered onto concrete. After automatically counting the discarded ammunition, you knew what was about to transpire. 

Just as swiftly as the rounds had been discarded, Arthur righted the pistol, spun the barrel, and placed it under his chin. Dangerous mischief twinkled in the lithe man’s eye, one that left you spellbound and trapped into watching the potential train wreck. On one hand, your survival chances would increase if one died. On the other, you’d have Joker brains all over you, covering your form like thick tar.

Interestingly, you had noticed how Arthur’s hands had stopped shaking, rage contained as he shut his eyes. His nostrils flared in one final breath until–

“ _Bang,_ ” Arthur whispered, eyes flying open as his laughter promptly interrupted him. 

Nothing. 

Nothing had happened. The only sound was the singular clack of the slot shifting. 

Joker snatched the weapon out of Arthur’s grasp, who still had the giggles, and followed his actions. 

“My turn,” the anarchist declared, pressing it against his forehead, briskly applying pressure to the instigator. 

_Clack!_

The lack of gunfire had brought ease to your unyielding body, rigid shoulders going lax; you begrudgingly told yourself that the relief you felt when the duo hadn’t committed spontaneous acts of suicide was merely due to the fact that you didn’t have to spend a good chunk of your time washing congealed brain matter out of your hair.

Confusion coiled around you when ear-splitting fits of laughter erupted from them. Arthur’s arm folded over his stomach as he placed a delicate hand on the other man’s shoulder, while Joker hunched over, palms resting on his knees. 

With them well and truly ‘occupied,’ you managed to shimmy one of your legs free from the knotted restraints, a section you had been working on for the entirety of their insane interaction. Unaware of how they both turned around at the sudden ruckus, adrenaline pumped through your veins, your leg disentangled and awkward, rutting against the harsh structures of the chair in a desperate attempt to rescue the other. 

As if they had the attention spans of goldfish, they were both reminded of your presence and exchanged looks – to the gun, to each other, then lastly, to you – of which you were far too occupied to see. 

Joker’s gaze fell to your pendulous leg, a snicker leaving his lips, “how’s it hanging?”

Arthur was the first to saunter over as he snatched the weapon from the other’s hold, running his fingers through the unkempt viridescent curls of hair. His animated walk was accentuated by the graceful, yet disjointed sway of his legs and his head was held high as he tugged on the edges of his suit. Then he straightened his carmine lapels as if he was fixing his attire, preparing for a grand show.

Joker was quick to follow, olive suspenders flicked off of his hunched frame as he prowled your way.

Their walk was full of intention to provoke, to create mayhem. 

Your neutral facade was unraveling at the seams; all bravado soon crumbling into uncertainty and dismay. Desperate to do something – _anything,_ your unbound foot scraped against the ropes, pathetically trying to free the other. Regretfully, you quickly found your struggles impeded by two hands, one of which was haphazardly holding the pistol, brushing against your knees. 

An anticipating smile stained Arthur’s features, red paint wrinkling mischievously as his form dipped between your legs; the carnal promise emanating from him making you feel like a cornered animal. Your skin rose at the wanton barrel which traced the inside of your thigh, weaving unpredictable patterns. It inched ever so intimately close, only to drop back down and trail elsewhere.

Joker, in one quick motion, leaned over and stole the half-used cigarette hanging from Arthur’s mouth with an insincere _‘excuse me.’_ The thud of his echoing footsteps fell behind you, barely giving you any time to register what was happening before you were enveloped by two strong arms. The warmth of his bare skin was far from comforting, the creases of his rolled-up sleeves skimmed your neck while the weight of his bicep pressed you down. 

“Now, we have a little, uh, _pro- **p** -osition for you,_” his hand fiddled with the hilt of the blade, almost like he was holding back every fibre of his being – _itching_ to sink it into your skin, the other holding the burning stick. When you swallowed, you felt the cold metal press into you, smoke filling your lungs. The local stinging around such area told you that your involuntary movement had been the final ingredient needed to break the dam – _to draw blood._

What was even worse was the way Joker leaned into you. A few ragged locks of dyed hair skimmed your cheek as his head rested near the crook of your nape – you could practically feel the slimy texture of his makeup wiping off on you. The way his hot breath fanned over your flush skin made you want to crawl away.

An exaggerated gasp from Arthur ripped a jolt from you, prompting breathy chuckles near your ear. 

“How rude of us to forget _this,_ ” your gag was roughly tugged on, yanking the drenched material out from between your gritted teeth. 

As you stretched the strained muscle again, your jaw gave a deep ‘ _pop,_ ’ a clear sign of the exhausted joint. 

“Fuck you!” You hissed, disgust clear in your tone.

“There’s…” A dull ache overcame your teeth as the pistol’s muzzle was suddenly pressed in with force, leaving you with no other option than to accept the odious intruder, “an idea.” The exuberant batting of his lashes and husked voice was all but a mere display of his child-like intrigue.

“You took the words _righttt_ out of my mouth.”

The attempt to create distance, your tongue piteously curling under its weight, was all in vain, the revolver shoved deeper, triggering your gag reflex. Saliva slipped out, slick gushes dribbling down your chin as the foreign object slid in and out – the rhythmic motion drawing out short gasps and pants from you.

A knot formed in your stomach, tight and defined as you felt roaming hands tug at the shredded leather. They approached from the perpetrator behind you, and no amount of struggling could discourage the fervent pollexes yanking the suit towards your hips, exposing your bra. 

Fingernails curled into the flesh of your palms, imprinting distinct crescents. The seemingly unyielding intensity of your vigour was broken when your muffled cries caved into moans at Arthur’s touch; his delicate fingers positioned against your clothed clit – rubbing small circles. Confusion eroded your combative mind, especially when you instinctively bucked against his ever-so-light caress, igniting the simmering inferno of concupiscence. 

Arthur observed the sight before him with an attentive glint in his smalt eye; the way your full lips were wrapped around _his_ weapon, greedily taking every inch; how the softest of whimpers escaped you whenever he pulled too far away, beckoning his libidinous ideas to flow wildly. He imagined how you’d cling onto him, scratching at his shoulder blades and gripping locks of hair, desperately taking everything he had to give. He imagined how sweetly his name would fall off your tongue. He imagined your trembling legs wrapped around his hips as he erratically plunged into you.

A familiar twitch disrupted his delightful reverie. Slowed movements of the pistol coaxed your heated stare to promptly break away from him, towards the bulge of his pants. 

_“Filthy,”_ he purred. 

At the interaction, a growl resonated from behind. A firm leather clutch forced the tilting of your head, the gun’s clatter signaling its cascade from your mouth. As the firearm tumbled, Joker’s hold brought you forward and captured your lips, awkwardly exacerbating the soreness in your neck. The kiss was hungry as his teeth bit into your lower lip, dragging for entry, and his permanent chelsea grin widened when he caught a glimpse of Arthur’s frowning face in his peripheral. 

The hold on your thighs constricted, flesh turning white around Arthur’s fingertips. From your tricky position, you noticed the scrunch of his nose, informing you of his blatant indignation. 

The puffy skin of Joker’s scars grazed yours while you continued to deny him entry, his heady motions overwhelming while a precipitous snag of your leg’s binds ripped a stifled yelp from you. The iron grasp on your chin hindered your ability to turn away, leaving you clueless of the other’s actions as he hastily unfettered clunky knots – liberating your entire bottom half. Arthur’s clumsy caresses swept over your suit, stopping at the bunched-up leather resting at your waist before his fingers curled around it. The material was guided downwards, and with the help of an occasional nudge from you, it was discarded completely; Arthur displayed his polished, crooked smile at your avid cooperation. 

The sudden exposure had your skin rising with goosebumps, the room’s chill particularly pronounced against your inflamed body. A finger detailed long slow strokes against your slit – the gesture, while an immediate relief to the contact you craved, had you wanting more. _Needing_ more. You felt like your brain had been split into two, each part working overtime to focus on the sinful indulgence propagated by the erratic duad. 

“Look at you,” Arthur interrupted himself with a snicker, “already so wet.” 

A sudden burst of pain, of burning, against your exposed skin was a blistering reminder of the cigarette you had so stupidly forgotten about. Writhing in Joker’s grip, he exploited your obscene whimpers and finally slid his tongue inside your mouth, no longer denied by your fruitless attempts. Smothered by his open-mouthed display of dominance – one you had been roughly coaxed into – you finally submitted to the anarchist.

“Good girl,” Joker hummed, breaking away momentarily to peer into your lustful gaze. Looking back into those darkened eyes, you saw the flickers of devilry – a look later characterised as his equivalent to an idea. Without so much as a word, you were released and given a moment to breathe, no longer entangled in his fierce kiss. The man strutted off, leaving the room with a metallic groan from the door. 

“Finally,” Arthur scoffed flamboyantly, eyes directed towards the door. 

When he turned his attention back to you, his lips stretched into a heart-stopping smirk, the expression speaking volumes. Needy fingers dug into your silken skin, and then suddenly, he leaned in, his breath hot against your core. 

“Arthur,” you whispered, slouching in a pathetic attempt to close the distance. He pulled back slightly when you did so, making sure you were still able to feel his light exhales – only _just_. It was clear he was enjoying every single second, loving the fact you were so reliant on him to provide a remedy. To put it delicately, you felt like you were going to explode. 

“Hmm?” He tantalized, fingers drumming against your upper leg. 

God, they were so _close_.

“Please…”

“Pleaseee?” He prolonged his words and fluttered his eyelashes innocently. 

_The little fucker._

“Touch me!” You managed to snap through your gritted teeth, nails once again digging into the already formed indents in your palms. 

“I’m _**so**_ sorry doll, but you’re gonna have to be more clear,” just from the small titter he emitted, you knew he was aware. He knew exactly what you meant. 

“Holy shit – you’re an ass.” 

“Such _impolite_ talk from the one begging seconds ago,” he gasped, mouth agape. If his fingers weren’t preoccupied with their gradual migration to your heat, you were sure one hand would be hovering in front of his mouth, accompanying his faux exasperation. 

“Do I need to teach you some manners?” 

Animated were his movements, and the tilt of his head, bouncing slightly, as he continued to look up at you. You didn’t need the flipping sensation in your gut to tell you that his words had a dangerous edge to them; the impish gleam in his eye a small insight into his scheming. It only heightened your desire. 

_Maybe you needed professional help._

You were taken aback when he unexpectedly placed pressure against your bundle of nerves, not anticipating he’d give in so quickly. In response, you went rigid, choking back a moan. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He blinked up at you with his blue eyes, ones that displayed emotions realms away from genuine curiosity. His fingers remained unmoving, his other hand slapping the inside of your thigh harshly whenever you so much as twitched; pleasure, and the local stings from his smacks, pain, interlaced in dance. 

“M-move,” was all you could muster. In all honesty, you wanted to rain insults down upon the man like no tomorrow, especially since it seemed as though he was going through a drought. Yet, your stupid primitive brain, overridden with your dumb biological urges, enforced the holding of your tongue. 

“Oh, you want me to move?” He asked, your head doing all the affirming for you, “yeah?” He sustained his coy act. 

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” 

His voice was sing-songy, and when he finally provided friction with unhurried swirls to your yearning clit you emitted a stuttering sigh. You tried to contain your noises, not entirely keen on feeding his already inflated ego, but judging from the way he was closely watching your expression with a wild twinkle, no amount of repression would save you. Quickly, his leisurely speed became tormenting, your involuntary lurches into his palm an unspoken plea for more. 

Your mouth was the first to betray you. 

“F-faster.”

For a second, Arthur halted entirely, as if such a statement needed processing. The frustration which constricted your chest, which weighed it down, was unbearable.

“What’s the magic word?” 

“Fuck off.” 

“So ungrateful,” he began, escalating his momentum, never once breaking his feverish stare. At the change, you felt your toes curl into themselves, digits following a similar pattern. 

This man was going to be the death of you. 

“Here I am, ready to _help,_ ” his breathing was uneven, light laughter interrupting him. 

“And _you,_ in return,” the fervency of his speed had you crumbling – breaking – his skilful strokes leading you to the edge. Your climax was approaching fast and judging from the knot forming in your stomach, it was an intense one at that. Feeling as though your body had stabbed you in the back for its traitorous actions, for switching sides and joining the enemy, you had absolutely no control over the way the cruel man’s name left your lips, a barrage of curses intermixing with it. 

“Say such _**awful**_ things to me.” 

Just when you felt yourself unwind, breathing heavy, Arthur spitefully pulled away, leaving you a sorrowful mess, desperate whimpers doing nothing to change his mind, “n-no, please I can’t–” 

“Greedy, are we?” 

You remained silent, lips pursed.

“Say it.”

“Fuck – yes I’m gre-greedy.” 

“Now, was that so hard to admit?” He grinned unsettlingly, clearly planning something. All you could do was glare. 

“Since you want more…” Arthur fiddled with one of the pockets on his suit, producing the metallic weapon again. Fear washed over you when his eccentric nature had him display the gun, shaking it next to his head as if it hadn’t been obvious in the first place. 

“A-Arthur, wait– ”

“Ah, ah!” He tsked, “this was what you wanted, remember?”

He closed the gap between you and the muzzle, it nudging at your entrance. The metal was freezing compared to the heat you were so used to, tearing a gasp from you. Salacious were the noises of your slick – coating the tip of the gun – as Arthur relentlessly inflicted suffering, purposely drawing out any spike of pleasure. He never fully pushed the gun’s nose inside, rather opting to retreat and repeat the whole vicious cycle again. 

To say Arthur had gotten his point across was an _understatement._

You didn’t know how much more you could handle. Choking on your tortured mewls, you swallowed your pride entirely and tried to give a mumbled apology. It was so muddled, you could barely process it but somehow, your tormentor was able to pick up on it, amusement leaving his nostrils. 

“What was that?” 

“I said I’m…” Crying out at how he inched the gun inside you once more, letting it remain halfway, your apology came out faint, yet much clearer, “s-sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?”

Your frantic nods were swiftly replied to with his tutting, “hmm, no. No, I don’t _think_ you are. Not yet.” 

Finally, he shoved the span of the gun forward as far as he could, no longer holding back. You felt yourself clench around the cylindrical object, Arthur’s handling developing a fixed pace. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, he connected his lips to your clit, his talented tongue sending your trembling being into bliss. Practically sobbing at this point and overridden with stimulation, your whirlwind of blabber made no sense. As the rolling of your pelvis attempted to match his eager speed, his own hums and moans were what set you down the path of liberation.

Just as you could see the light at the end of the tunnel, a sharp, echoing boom jerked your attention away from Arthur – away from the tightening coil in your abdomen. Like you, he calmed his shock and reared his head to the door, pausing momentarily. In a cruel twist of fate, the momentum of your orgasm was lost, stopped in its tracks like a train trying to avoid its own wreckage.

_**Again.** _

“ _LADIES AND GENTLE-MEN!_ ” Joker shouted with a sneer, kicking the door open while he waltzed back in. 

_You really couldn’t catch a break, could you?_

“Tonight, we have a _special_ guest.” 

In his possession was a small device, one you only identified as a camera through his energetic prances. 

“The oh-so-famous, oh-so-innocent, Judgement…”

Completely unfazed by the x-rated display, he strode back to the chair with the recorder, the lens never diverging from you; completely ignoring Arthur who was still nestled between your thighs. 

“You wanna tell the camera what you two _lovebirds_ were doing? Hmm?” 

As Joker aggressively shoved the lens in your face, the numerous quirks of his eyebrows – quick and urging – communicated that the question wasn’t rhetorical. Glaciating at his fanatical performance, you remained silent. 

“ _Beeeing_ a little whore, huh?” 

Deplorable stutters were your only response. 

“Hmm, yeah?” In a series of short, sharp slaps – not incredibly harsh yet the shocking sting was present, his gloved hand met your cheek. 

“Yeahhh?” He cooed again, dragging out the word, his sadistic pleasure evident as you noticed the tent in his pants, “and who said you could stop?” 

Erratic and unpredictable, his fingers met with the strands of your hair. He violently pulled upwards as your neck was shoved up against the top of the wooden chair’s frame, a cringe overtaking your features. 

Tutting, he jerked his head towards the other’s direction. In a confused haze, you failed to notice that the motion wasn’t the result of an unusual tick but rather an unsaid agreement between the two. 

Arthur simpered at finally reaching a consensus. His stilled hand, no longer loitering, kneaded the flesh of your thigh before his tongue licked a long stripe, replacing the stiff muzzle with the warmth of his digits – flicking into you with an unanticipated vigour. When Joker released you wordlessly, you tried to relish in Arthur’s controlled strokes again, as opposed to focusing on the hovering, unsteady camera way too irritatingly close for comfort. 

Blurs of purple and the rustling of fabric caught your attention, the smooth motions of Joker palming himself through his trousers and his coarse grunts egging you on. You held his heated stare as you rolled your hips against Arthur’s touch, the eagerness he’d displayed earlier restoring the pent-up pressure within. 

“You take my fingers so well,” Arthur cooed, voice was slightly muffled by the responsive jerks of your pelvis.

You threw your head back, this time without the thuggish help, and screwed your eyes shut when Arthur increased his speed, his slender fingers ramming into you. Your depravity had ensured you wouldn’t last long. The words he darkly uttered hurled you down the path of no return. 

“Cum for me.” 

After his command, you felt his appendages curl inside you, striking your sweet spot, and you barely sensed the way your numb lower-half pushed down against his fingers, squirming. The very sight of your unraveling urged Arthur to shuffle closer, to press his cheek onto your thigh, to pinch your flesh as if to remind him that this wasn’t all in his head – every twitch and flinch served as a wave of relief, further entrancing him.

It was impossible to tell what the final straw was, but as you came around his digits, riding the ripples of ecstasy, swift footsteps reverberated around the space.

Then, suddenly, your hands were free.

The burns etched into your wrists were the last thing on your mind, however, when Arthur finally retracted his fingers. His stare burned into you and his tongue lolled out, the tip swirling against them. Saliva trailed from his tongue, until he fully inserted them in, sucking around them. The small action was enough to reignite the carnal yearning, so much so that the click of Joker’s tongue from behind, coupled with his hands which jabbed at your shoulders, were lost on you. 

“Move.”

Dazed and disoriented from both men, and from the aftermath of your orgasm, you were left muddled. A scoff at your lack of movement hinted at the man’s impatience, his original jabs morphing into brutal shoves. 

“Prick…” You muttered, the phrase coming out choked up. It had been a natural reflex, one you hoped he hadn’t heard.

“Keep, uh, sweet-talking me, _sweethear-t,_ ” you missed the sneer which flicked across his face from your position but you sure as hell heard it within his tone, “see where it gets ya.”

At your abrupt jostles, Arthur wriggled backwards, palms helping himself off the floor as he anticipated your fall. When your bodies collided, his arms seized you, steadying your stumbling figure. Joker, who’d watched the whole scene play out with a menacing grin, rutted his fingers against the chair’s rail drumming a pattern as his head tilted. 

“Awww, Artie’s already _attached._ ” 

Chin resting against his chest, you barely caught the way Arthur’s eyes rolled at the snarky remark. Peeling himself away from you, his hands flew to his cerise suit, brushing off the imaginary grime on his lapels. His tongue ran over his teeth in a dazzling smile, the mild shakes of his head just as pugnacious as the initial scathing comment. Before you knew it, you were entangled in a hasty swivel and pressed up against his stiffened cock. His hips skillfully ground into you, hands guiding your waist while his azure eyes emanated a certain fervency, glaring Joker down. Your gasps were cut short from his frisky theatrical display; the tension between the two seemed to be a never-ending thing. 

Nudging his foot into the back of your knee, you felt them buckle as he steadily lowered you down by your shoulders. Hauled towards the gritty concrete floor with an ‘oof,’ you fell onto all fours; their looming outlines bled intimidation, amplifying the overpowering sense of vulnerability. 

Then, using the tip of his shoe, Arthur tapped the back of your thighs, prompting you to spread them until he was able to kneel between them, happy with the distance. After a few seconds of fabrics swishing, the distinctive clamour of a zipper sounded, its slow descent earning a gulp from you. Anticipating his next movements with shuddering breaths, the warmth of his proximity amplified the slickness between your legs. 

Never in a million years would you have thought something so outlandish would occur: to have the infamous unhinged duad proposition you. To actually, more or less, agree. To actually be craving their touch; enjoying it. 

It felt wrong.

It felt as though everything you had worked for, spent years trying to build, had been wiped away, all by a mere burst of carnal lust. A darker part of you, a part you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone think about, craved this. Wanted more. You were divided between right and wrong, divided between your morals, between body and mind. Never before had you felt so torn.

Everything seemed to be a blur, yet your throbbing core and the weakness in your limbs – heightened by Arthur’s delicate caresses – was a stellar reinforcer; you were riddled with a potent need. 

With a sigh, Joker stalked over and laced his fingers through his dyed strands, camera balancing on one hand. A swift flick of his wrist sent the device flying; again and again and again until finally, he stood above you grinning from ear to ear. 

“Don’t mind me,” he said, falling to his knees. 

Meanwhile, Arthur, true to his mischievous nature, continued to tease your aching cunt. Your desperate squirms were speedily interrupted by the firm strike of his palm upon your ass, harshly replacing the relief those deprived motions sought after. The whine you emitted at his handling was absolutely filthy and you could practically feel your pride – your dignity – slipping away. One of his delicate hands, no longer absorbed in the torturous task of toying with you, trailed down the line of your spine, his pointer finger tracking against the ridges before forcing the arching of your back. The hurried action was something you reared your head at, trying to catch a glimpse of the sadist. When your eyes finally did land on him, you nearly melted at the sight; he was completely disordered and frenzied. Green curls hung over his face, sweat lightly coating his face and mixing in with his makeup while his entranced angled gaze drunk in the delicate carvings of your body. 

You were unsure as to what had gotten into you; rendered completely malleable – tied to the will of the men you had, only minutes prior, wanted to fight. 

Joker, who had started loosening his buttons, was quick to notice this and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to comment, the cockiness of his remark clear-cut, “well, _someone’s_ enjoying themselves.”

Ignoring the glare you directed his way, he shoved his pinstriped trousers down and freed himself. Somewhere in between, he’d discarded his purple gloves, a long, slender paint-covered hand giving long languid strokes. Practically gawking at his length, to which he giggled at, you had no time to contemplate if you could fit him as Arthur’s nimble fingers began to fiddled with your bra clasp, eventually removing the obstructing material. His warm shallow breaths swept your neck, the occasional graze of his teeth manifesting shivers and goosebumps. In the mere seconds he’d succeeded in building up the tension and with it, your expectancy, the man finally captured your waist. Velvety and intoxicating were the words that were hushed into your ear, snowballing the electrifying bolt of arousal to a level you hadn’t even thought possible. 

“So eager for it, aren’t you?” Your breath hitched when you felt his cock nudge at your entrance, “I wonder how much of me you can take.” 

Before you could even respond, the rough steering of Joker had your attention flying back to him; between the two’s back-and-forth, you were essentially convinced you had whiplash. His fingers wove into your hair and painfully inched you closer, causing you to cry out at the sudden spike of pain. With his hold, he maneuvered you in such a way that you were mere centimeters from his cock, precum coating the tip. 

“ _Heeheh_ – open up, _buttercu-p._ ” 

With the only warning being a quick squeeze of your waist from Arthur, nothing could have prepared you for the way he worked his hips forward agonisingly slowly. Your shared moan truly made you light-headed, his euphoric noises addictive; sultry and laced in gold. His length was something you needed to get used to – even from his slow pace, you could tell he was big. 

Joker, taking advantage of your mewl, snapped his own pelvis onwards, the violent jerk forcing you to take him into your mouth. His hand which held the black device was hustled into view, causing you to look up at the grunting man. Airy curses and rumbling groans urged you to hollow your cheeks, your own pleasure manifesting in hums around his cock. You were sure by the way he was unsteadily holding the filmer that the quality would turn out chaotic, the occasional noise or two from him slipping in.

The sweet rush of satisfaction, prompted by the way his expression twitched and his nose scrunched, drove you to swallow his length – or at least attempt to – his girth filling you right up. 

One of his hands which had remained idle and buried within your hair, suddenly gained life, pulling you all the way back to the tip. Using this chance as payback, you swirled your tongue against the head of his cock, noting carefully how the grip on your hair faltered faintly. 

_Bingo._

All limbs but one worked to steady your arched position while your keen fingers reached up to wrap around his shaft, pumping experimentally. The purr Joker emitted when you simultaneously flicked your tongue against the tip, trailing down his length in one long lick, was almost enough to send you off right there. And, as you held his eyes, identifying how they swam with a captivating blazing desire, you concluded you wanted to hear it again. To watch him break at your managing. Hell, you made it your personal goal. 

You were about to swallow Joker deep again, to haul that lascivious noise out of him, but before you could, Arthur interrupted with a particularly sudden and harsh propulsion. As soon as you attempted to shrink away, to glance back at Arthur, a swift pull from your crown had you remaining; Joker’s fiendish radiance resembling his demand for your attention. Desperate to not lose your balance, you clutched onto his thick thigh, your nails digging into the flesh. 

“Eyes up here, sweetpea,” Joker crooned. 

Gasping at the angle he had you, neck fully exposed, there was nothing you could do but bend to his will and fall back to all fours. 

His patience had evidently worn thin because once you were briskly positioned to face him, he rammed his cock back into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You gagged and the whimper that followed was ignored as he wasted no time in picking up his pace, face-fucking you. 

“We’re _finally,_ ” Joker growled, smug as he obtained another choke from you, “putting that mouth to good use.” 

His rapid rate was brutal and had you bouncing back onto Arthur’s length just as fast. You applied as much suction as you could, while the bend in your back was sustained by Arthur’s cruel correction; if your position slipped, straying too far, his palm would ruthlessly connect with your skin. Each of his overwhelming strokes hit you deep, filling you. You really did try your best to keep yourself together, but it was a difficult task with the pair ravishing you, the occasional laugh from behind communicated that Arthur was well aware of how hard he was making things. 

Joker’s hips had been, for the most part, doing most of the work, establishing a steady rhythm and without care, the recording device in his clutches was turned off, thrown to the side. Blissfully unaware of the tears that had begun to fall, you shut your eyes as the droplets mixed in with your mascara, smudging and creating darks streaks. Their path was disrupted by a paint-stained thumb that swiped away the trails; the repetitive striking of your gag reflex, combined with pure rapture, the culprits of such messy lines. 

“How precious,” Joker sang, his voice somewhat strained as he shifted his hold, wrist now tyrannically guiding you by your hair. 

Enraptured by the burning in your throat, his thumb continued to rub soothing circles. The uncharacteristic affection had caught you off guard and lagging bewilderment coerced you to scan his features. An unsettling realisation followed, one that rattled your mind, one that released a string of self-ridicule when it processed.

It was only then when you realised how breathtaking he was. The slight scrunch of his features nourished the unrelenting magnetism, his unhinged regard subsiding for a moment – displaying a brief flicker of humanity. It seemed as though he knew how to draw you in perfectly, to catch you off guard. 

As nice as the three-second faux tenderness was, it was sharply contrasted when the appendage retreated, a sudden substance replacing its gentle caress. Flinching at the liquid trailing down your cheek, which you immediately identified as a gob of saliva, you were rendered into a state of disbelief. 

“How’s it feel to ‘stoop’ to our level, hmm?”

“So self-assured, but – ah, deep _**down,**_ ” his controlling fist abruptly stilled, shimmying himself further down your throat after a brutal thrust, “what you project – it’s all a lie.”

His jarring words had you glaring up at him, though you were certain by his snicker he’d picked up on your swirling doubts. 

“What do you really stand for, hmm?” He drawled.

He released a throaty snarl when you lightly dragged your teeth against his shaft; a warning.

_“Naugh-ty.”_

His hand met your cheek and struck the flushed skin.

Shrinking at the smack, you hummed around his cock, disgrace tainting your thoughts at the forbidden exhilaration. 

“You tell yourself you’re doing your job for ‘the greater good.’ To rid Gotham of its cancer. Because it’s ‘right,’” he raised his eyebrows as if to scold. 

“But your morals? It’s a facade. They’re something you use to run from reality. To run from the darkness within. From yourself.”

“You see, the truth? It’s always much _ug-li-err.”_

“Truth is, you love the adrenaline. The chaos. _The thrill,_ ” the idiosyncrasy you had witnessed countless of times repeated, his tongue darting out. 

“ _Truth iss,_ ” he paused, releasing a grunt, “you’re just as _**bad**_ as us.”

Your mind was screaming at you to stop and to refute his smearing statements, but defending yourself seemed fruitless, especially when his monologue had brought on internal questioning. The idea of him being right, even if it was just a slither, was… terrifying, to put it lightly. Was there a chance he knew you better than yourself?

Too dizzy to respond – not that you could properly anyway – you were barely aware of your surroundings when Arthur suddenly reached his arm over your hip and dipped his palm, targeting your clit. His rapid rubs were what finally got you in the end. In an encompassing jolt of alleviation, the rigid gyre of tension snapped, your being transported to literal nirvana. With the encompassing warmth washing over you, your weak legs began to tremble and Arthur’s once patterned rate started to stutter, a clear indication of his impending orgasm.

A guttural snarl left his lips and hot strands of his release spilled into you. His frantic breathing filled the room, echoing off the ashen walls, while Joker’s own thrusts began to wobble, the strain in your jaw elated at the potential break. 

His exposed biceps flexed when his hold drifted to the back of your skull. Before you could protest, he shoved you forward by your hair. Disjointed mumbled praise huskily left him as he threw his head back and adopted a ruthless pace. By that point, you were ‘just as bad’ as him, the veins in his neck displaying as you let him use your mouth to chase his climax.

With a growl you wished you could play on repeat, Joker came, releasing thick, hot spurts of cum. When his unstable trusts began to slow, he withdrew – his words strained, yet nonetheless demanding. 

“Swallow,” a couple of taps to your sore cheeks followed the order.

You obeyed. 

“Open,” he commanded, your complying tongue slipping out crudely. Still dazed, your heavy lids lazily looked up at the man while he inspected. 

“Atta’ girl,” gentle strokes of your hair accompanied the praise and without even realising it, you leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. His hold remained for a few moments, continuing to pet your hair while Arthur made his presence known against the curve of your back, sweet kisses embellishing the skin. 

Joker was the first to pull away as he tucked himself away, buttoning his trousers back up then, Arthur followed. Joker’s eyes lingered on you for a moment before his hands delved into one of his pockets and pulled out a green handkerchief. The wavering in his eye contact was hardly picked up on in your disoriented state, only conscious of the coloured material he produced when it hit you in the face, falling to the grey concrete. As a quiet whine left your mouth and you slumped to the floor, dropping next to the cotton, Arthur was quick to move in and assist. Faintly making out small swipes against your cheeks and neck, your brows furrowed, your hazy vision encouraging the drooping of your lids. You vaguely registered the indistinct, slurred mumbles that left your lips as your own, each word proving to be extremely taxing energy-wise. 

“You guys…”

“…Owe me a–”

“…New… suit…” 

Both of you missed the way Joker’s lips twitched, the light outline of a smile threatening to slip. Admiring the fire within, which was still yet to extinguish, Arthur released a genuine chuckle. His gentle hands maneuvered you in such a way that your limp figure laid safely cradled in his arms, the back of your head resting upon his chest. Well and truly dead to the world, your body began to give in to its exhaustion. 

“Sleep,” he whispered. 

And with the warmth of his embrace, you did, the soft petting of your hair and the steady rhythm of his heart a lullaby you drifted off to.


End file.
